the package part 1/2

I rummage around in my brain as an old man might dig through his sock drawer looking for a matching pair.  Trying to remember the last time we spoke is like that.  I take a snippet of memory from over here, sew it to a strand over there, and paste these pieces together over a larger scrap to make a whole.  Everyone does it this way, I’m sure.  Remembering is less recollecting and more reconstructing.  It’s not perfect.

My dogs are going berserk while the deliveryman stands on the other side of the screen door.  He looks at me as if I should let him in, and mouths something through the glass.  I open the sliding window a crack so I can hear him.  “It’s okay,” he says, “I’m good with dogs.”

I don’t know what that means, and I stare at him for moment.  He doesn’t even know my dogs.  They’re nice animals, would never hurt anyone, but he has never met them.  I look down at my dogs, barking, pawing at the door, trying to push through with their big heads.  I question the deliveryman’s judgement.

The package he’s holding, I can see your name scrawled across a corner in red ink.  You’ve always preferred red ink.  There’s no return address because you are forever of no fixed one.  Worn fuzzy in spots, there are stains here and there on the brown packaging paper.  Damp has blurred the postmarks.  Myriad stamps clutter up a corner.  There are no rips or tears because every edge has been meticulously taped down.  You know what it’s like to travel; you know what is needed to keep safe.  The deliveryman insists on getting my signature.  “I’m serious,” he says, “dogs don’t bother me at all.”

At once, I open the door and my dogs pile out onto the porch nearly knocking the deliveryman over.  The large dog stuffs her snout right into his crotch, hard, really going for it.  The smaller one, she starts running laps around him.  A look of panic flashes across his face as he teeters there, holding out the package.  I take it, surprised by how light it is for its size.   A car passing on the street slows down, the driver gawking, trying to see what the commotion is about, and the deliveryman laughs nervously as my dogs accost him.  “See,” he says.  I don’t know what he means, but I smile anyway.

With the tip of my index finger, I sign my name on the screen of the deliveryman’s cell phone while he pets my dogs.  Having collected all the data on him they could, the dogs are calm now, enjoying the attention of their new friend.  He tells them they’re good dogs.  My heavily pixelated signature is severe black against the bright white of the cell phone screen.  It’s barely my name anymore, but the deliveryman seems pleased when I hand him his phone.  “I’ve always been good with dogs,” he says.  Maybe he has.  I have no idea.  He walks purposefully back to his van, and I take the dogs inside.